There's a restless, screaming anguish in the soul
That hammers to a regular rhythm on the cuffs
A message stuck in a constant repetition
Wash clean the grime from your dirty bluffs
Which are pennies down the drain
The body curls and scabs in pain
The skin grated by stabbing shame
Flaking over a rusty sheet
That does not reach raw feet
A baldness encased in fur
And bloodbags past their date
A bloating to stretch like taffy
Shredding like abandoned splinters
Compressed into an unearthly state
Lines form on crusty entrails
Disembodied organs play musical chairs
Around the spine's chopping board
The persistent groping for an off-switch
Becomes the agonisingly regular itch
To plague the gored
© Copyright 2016 Mathew Nicolson. All rights reserved.
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